


Shack 30

by Speranza



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Canadian Shack, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-29
Updated: 2001-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:04:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Billy dreamed he was back in Canada, in one of those horrible fucking band houses they used to stay in, back before there was a record company to take care of everything, to do things the right fuckin' way for a change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shack 30

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of the original Canadian Shack project (2001).

Billy dreamed he was back in Canada, in one of those horrible fucking band houses they used to stay in, back before there was a record company to take care of everything, to do things the right fuckin' way for a change. Now the record company blew into town, did the promos, got the song in rotation, roused the fan base, and booked them into the very best five star hotels, usually the penthouse suite. Back then there were band houses, these fuckin' shacks in the middle of nowhere—coffee-stained mugs in the cabinets, bleach-stained towels in the bathrooms, cum-stained mattresses on the floor, the marks of a thousand other wankers who'd been there before them.

What was weird about this particular band house was that there was nobody running the joint, plus no Pipe and no John. Just Joe, sprawled across from him on the mattress, shoulders back against the wall. Just watching him, smoking a cigarette, sort of half-smiling.

He had a hole in his head.

As Billy watched, Joe took a final drag and dropped the butt down the neck of an empty Jack Daniels bottle. It went out with an audible hiss. Joe smiled again, peeled his shoulders away from the wall, and started crawling toward him up the blood-stained mattress.

Billy figured it was maybe time to move, haul ass up and off this mattress and maybe get out of here. He moved, and pain shot through him—bad pain, like knives. Bad, fuckin' _excruciating_ , from his—

He looked down at himself, at his boot, at his leg, which was bent at a really weird-ass angle—

Joe was crouched at his feet now, staring up the filthy denim at him. Gasping, Billy mentally ordered himself not to move, not for anything, no fuckin' way. Joe put a palm on either side of his legs, careful not to nudge the broken bones, and crawled upward, over his body, head lowered like some faithful, rabid dog. Billy gritted his teeth and looked at Joe's blood-matted hair and the piece of his ear that was missing. And then Joe lowered his head even further, put his face into Billy's dirty denim crotch, and took a deep sniff.

Billy flinched helplessly, and his muscles tightened, and the shattered bones ground against each other. Holy _fuck_ that hurt, that hurt so fuckin' bad, that was—

Joe was mouthing him now, and this was so much pleasure-pain he could hardly stand it, couldn't stand it, could _not_ fucking stand it. His hands tightened helplessly into fists and that's when he realized he was still holding the gun.

With a start, Billy woke up, heart jackhammering, and his pants—fuck, his belly was sticky, his sweatpants were soaked with it. Billy rolled on his expensive sheets, flicked on the beside light, and looked over the current penthouse suite. Lovely. Perfect. Typical.

"God," Billy mumbled, fumbling for his water glass, "I'm so glad that fucker's dead."


End file.
